Lost Boys
by lunar-lunacy
Summary: Just an angsty short story about our beloved Kato. Please RR.


All right, so yeah, another short story. A very angst-filled Kato 3 story. Second to Rosiel and Katan, he's has to be my favorite. He's just so… Real, I guess. While all these other characters are reincarnations, and angels, and demons, etc… He's a very interesting, 100 human being.

This is rated PG-13 'cause of a bit of yaoi. Not a lot, just a hint of it.

Please review, I don't care if you critique it to death, I wont take it personally.

As this is a short story, there will be no other chapters to follow. But keep reading my other short stories!

Disclaimer: Kato and Setsuna belong to Kaori Yuki and all her extreme uber goodness, so much that it can't be comprehended.

* * *

The city streets of Tokyo is musky of sulfur, a smell that when meets his nostrils they flare unpleasantly. He doesn't care much for the tourist city that's harbored him since birth, and the abundance of humanity that migrates there. All look the same. And they never smile. They are empty faces.

And beauty becomes paved, such a natural thing, cut down and slain like it was never there. Cherry blossoms, a Japanese treasure, grows toward an ashen sky and thrives from an asphalt ground no longer with humanities regard. And somehow, this boy, this young man on the verge of adulthood, feels like he knows the cry of nature's pain better than anybody.

Because like the trees in this city, that grew only where convenient for humanity, he, too, is a child of lies.

His whole existence had always been hushed, a secret. He is a whisper. Sometimes, when he passes by a window and catches a dingy reflection in the glass, he wonders if what looks back at him is a ghost. Does anyone else see him?

He will, on occasion, push away the shadows that cling to every limb and pull him to the corner with determined fingers, the hands that lull him slowly into decay. And he makes his presence known. He cries, and he screams, and he inflicts any pain necessary if it means not wasting away. If he leaves scars on brittle skin, it's enough to know that they will look at it and remember. _Kato gave me this scar. Kato..._

When not even he wishes to remember himself anymore, he swallows a pill. And he watches as the wallpaper now yellow and dry on the walls he'd blasted last month with an angst fist melts around him... Then the floors and the ceilings... And then he melts, too. And it feels warm, but breezy like mother's breath and hold, and he feels safe.

But today, he wants to be seen. His opportunity is in eye view. He reaches out and grasps November evening air, an inane attempt at snatching the fading silhouette of a boy.  
Setsuna Mudo.

A sprint gets him there in little time, and he's driven Mudo into an alleyway. Mudo walks too slow. Shoulders hunched forward, hands shoved into worn pockets, thick hair painted in autumn caramel hanging wildly in devil-may-care, crescent moon eyes. He doesn't like the way he walks, or the manner of his tongue. He doesn't like any of it.

With a call of his name, Mudo turns. And now he knows he's alive.

He smirks.

"So, Freshman punk, up for round two?" is his battle cry. Freshman punk. How deliciously accurate.

"No, not really," replies Mudo coolly. Kato cringes. "But if your gonna serve me one of those girly punches of yours, I guess I really don't have a choice, huh?"

His heart nearly plunders through his chest just then, his palms go warm, breath heavy. Just the sight of Mudo is the biggest rush he can get without happy pills. And God, how he wants to make that kid bleed.

"You got a lotta nerve, Mudo," says Kato, and the larger boy is now close. Dangerously close.

But doesn't seem intimidated. Not in the slightest. So Kato makes him afraid.

When his knuckle meets Mudo's jaw, it begins. Blood boils to the surface, leaving muscles quivering and palms sweaty. And this war, moist and bittersweet with fresh blood and tears hasn't even begun.

Mudo's bound against the cracked paint now, and Kato's calloused hands are no longer stranger to the boy's wrists. There is blood on his lip, and he looks as though his consciousness is slipping. But Kato wont leave. Not while he has him here, tall slender body pressed against the smaller boys own, hair damp with sweat clinging to his face.

But something happens.

Mudo's eyes, rolling absently as consciousness drains while lids threaten to close completely, meet Kato's own. It's only an instant. But there is a tale that they told. A sad tale that sings to him of heartbreak. A heartbreak that Kato feels, too. And while they're locked, it's like an electric force surges through every vain. There's a sad beauty about those eyes.

And Kato lets go. Casually, though. And he manages a laugh when Mudo hits the concrete.  
But he his hindered as a weak hand closes in around his ankle. And when flesh clashes with flesh, he shivers from the familiar electricity.

"What? Up for more, Mudo?" but the tone doesn't match the words he carefully carved to sound frigid. He skillfully regains his composure with a cold laugh and a kick to free his leg.

"Not giving up yet..." came a raspy groan, like a grater scraping against his throat. Mudo struggles to gather himself off the ground freshly dampened from rain pour, leaving the air fresh with the scent of wet pavement. Kato's boyish legs fold from under him so he's kneeling.

"You really area fuckin' idiot, you know that?" he speaks with sheer amusement, yet a certain admiration rises in his tone as well. The kid never lets up. In that way - and in that way alone, he thinks - they're alike. Fighters. Fighters against the world, and themselves.

But there's a dull groan, and then no movement at all. It seems he's finally fallen victim to the clothes soggy and red, the cement that poses no comfort.

Kato doesn't move from the spot he's stationed himself in, and he watches, still as the stagnant air. He can see now, as close as he is, the perfection of the boy's face that suddenly leaves him aghast. He's beautiful.

"Mudo," the voice that erupts from his own mouth startles him. He reaches, and his hand, so coarse and cold, collides with the graceful curve of the smaller boy's shoulder. He is warm to the touch. Mudo gives no objections - not as though he is in any state to oppose - so he keeps his hand there a while. He wishes for some warmth to smear off on him.

But then a groan alerts Kato of his awakening, and he removes his hand. But part of his touch still lingers on Mudo's nape. And he wonders if he can feel it, too.

He shouldn't still be here. He should have gone all ready.

Tragic eyes blink open from behind the blond fringe shading them. And again they lock gazes. Kato's with a shady flame, Mudo's are simply drained of any enthusiasm. But they both feel that surge. And it isn't spoken of at all. But they know.

Mudo indulges in the silence between them and stands weakly, limbs unsteady, and he blindly finds the wall to keep him upright. Kato can tell that his pride's hurt. Then Kato finds the will to speak. He has to. But his mind isn't with his tongue.

"Damnit, Mudo. I thought I'd killed you," and all he can do is sit back and pray to God that he still appears callous.

But Mudo seems too sullen to listen. And Kato feels invisible. He hates being ignored. Especially now. Especially by Setsuna Mudo. He wont take it.

"Guess I got my hopes up, huh?" voice rises with each note. Setsuna still keeps his eyes at a distance. And now he's getting really pissed off. Where the Hell has his mouth gone? Setsuna Mudo has one of the biggest of anyone he'd ever met. "Hey, I'm talking to you, damnit. You really gotta learn to respect your elders, y'anno?"

"Yeah, I hear you. It's pretty hard not to," is his distant reply. And now Kato is at a loss.

"Well, just gonna hafta try harder next time," his voice becomes quiet, fading in the distant city blares. And Mudo is tugging under his rogue painted nose with the arch of his wrist. Kato retrieves a cig from his pocket, slips the butt between scabby, bruised lips, and lights it. Then he breathes it all in, the aroma of ignited cinders fills his nostrils. The smoke rolls off his tongue when he speaks. "Want one?"

"What? Cancer on a stick? No. You probably poisoned it, or something."

Kato laughs, and he is close again. Setsuna tenses. Kato almost hears the bones snap into place.

"C'mon, Mudo," he says with a tilt motion of his head, drawing Setsuna's weary eyes through the arch of dumpsters lit with smoke reflecting orange neon from lights shining overhead.

"Where?"

"To my place. I've picked up better looking chicks, but I feel like being generous," and with a final swig of smoke, he allows the cigarette to fall, dragging it with the sole of his shoe.

Setsuna watches him. He reminds him of Kira, the way he's so declined. Like Kira, everything he does, every movement or word that he speaks, is somehow cool.

"Why should I trust you?"

"I guess you don't gotta," replies Kato coolly, accompanied with a dull shrug of ample shoulders. And then he adds, almost as an afterthought as he begins to turn away, "But do you have a better place to be? Got someone waitin' for you back home? Or are you going back to nothing?"

The lights were always out. And it was quiet. She was never there. And he would turn on any fan, make any noise… He just didn't want to hear the quiet… The quiet was a constant reminder that she wasn't there… Setsuna's jaw tightens and pops through his cheek.

So he follows.

Kato's place is as he expects it to be. Everything that was once vivid white is now wane and yellow. There are holes in the couch stationed in front of a tired television set. Laundry lounges about the shag carpeting in corners and even table and counter tops. The fridge is wide open, and Kato is making a leap toward it.

"Nice enough for ya, Mudo? Probably not as exclusive as Daddy's place, huh?" he downs the milk right from the carton, sweeping off the trail with the back of his hand. Now he casually leans, and his arms, boyishly defined and long, slips the loose tank over a slim torso and broad shoulders. Any muscles on his upper arms are just slightly distinguished, but barely, and overall he looks thin and underfed. He lacks so much intimidation beneath the clothes he wears, the layers that gives him a name. And now he's a boy. Just a boy.

He absently tosses the shirt and it lands somewhere near Setsuna's feet.

"Wanna see my room?"

Setsuna blushes madly now, and he shivers from the night rush that distantly blows in. He turns his cheek and feels the cool brush against it, but it does no good. "You're gay, Kato?"

"Maybe."

Setsuna scowls at such a vague reply. He needs to know. Because this feeling, whatever they're feeling, it's mutual.

"Either you are, or you aren't," he says.

"Then, I am," and he slides the carton, nearly empty now, back in the fridge. And his arms are stretched back over his head, and his eyes dart toward a bewildered Setsuna. "I don't know, okay? I don't know what this is, what I feel for you. It's just… God damn, it's something… I mean, I hate you. I really do."

"Flattery'll get you nowhere."

Kato laughs, and brushes past the boy. And they touch for an instant. And there's a jolt. But they don't say anything.

"C'mon, just come and see my room. Then you can go. I wont rape you, I swear," Kato awaits no answer before descending down the hall, where it begins to smell stronger of a certain… Something. It isn't a bad smell. It's Kato's smell. Setsuna follows hesitantly, but follows, nonetheless.

When he reaches the bedroom, Setsuna stands obscured against the door, peering in. There are fresh holes punched through the fading walls. It was no wonder Kato's knuckles are always so bruised and scarred.

"Damn, Mudo, you were never so shy before. Get your ass in here," and Kato sprawls himself out on the bed. He closes his eyes, but he isn't satisfied. He wont be satisfied until he takes a pill. And Setsuna can tell that he wants to, that the feeling is eating him away.

"You shouldn't, Kato," he says, and they both know what he's referring to. The temptation is fresh on their minds.

"Damnit, kid. You fight like a raging bull, talk like some punk smart ass, but you don't do drugs. Aren't those supposed to kinda fit in with each other? Like a juvenile delinquent three in one type'a deal?"

"I did once. But I swore to her that I'd never do it again."

"Who? Your Mama?"

"No," Setsuna takes a seat on the foot of the bed, and Kato lets his legs recline on his lap. He would have opposed, but he'd been beaten up good for one day, so he allows it. But he tenses.

"Then who is this she person? Hmm? A girlfriend, Mudo, eh?" and there's a smug look written all over his face, as though he's on the verge of teasing. Or perhaps it's a mild look of envy.

"My sister," and it becomes clear. Its written in his eyes, on his lips, in the tone of longing that he uses. But Kato doesn't get disgusted. Not at all. He's far too messed up to be looking down on anybody.

Then Kato brings himself to a sitting position. And he longs for those eyes again. Because when he sees them, he doesn't feel alone anymore. The eyes of the messiah are the most beautiful and holy, and they scream to him, redemption.

Their hands collide, and Setsuna observes them with great pain in that all ready melancholic stare. Fingertips stroll against the battered flesh on his knuckle, and Kato shivers. Then, Setsuna does something. His lips find the flesh condemned from heat and anger to blood and scars, and he kisses it. Just a simple kiss. But it means the world.

So then they find each other again, and as their skin, now sticky from the hot night, melt into each other and they forget for an instant that they're touching. Nerves become numb, and they've become one now.

There are tears behind both of their eyes, but they don't let them show. Not yet. Neither of these boys are stranger to pain. But they're strong, and they do it on their own. They were children branded destined and to push their way in this world, and they struggle so hard with the scars, but no one will ease the pain. They do it for themselves. They fight for themselves. They stand alone.

But nothing makes sense then. Just this feeling. These feelings of loneliness, of bitterness, of pain, they melt. Their eyes tell different tales, but the morals are the same.

And it's a long road… But they begin to find their way again.


End file.
